


the Englishman

by IanMuyrray



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flash Fic, Gen, Lallybroch Library Prompt Exchange, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 15:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14312097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: Jamie writes a letter to FrankA flash fiction series





	1. Boston, 1962

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: hi friends! this fic is for @thelallybrochlibrary’s prompt exchange on tumblr. I selected #12 by @docsama. (you can find me on tumblr as @muykonos!) Thank you so much for the opportunity to explore this, even as I very loosely interpreted the prompt!!! ! ! 
> 
> Original prompt:  
> "PROMPT #12: Frank Randall and Jamie Fraser discover a way to communicate by military correspondence. They can discuss what Frank found that has him worried about Brianna and the family he’ll never see. But through documents knows about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted to my tumblr @muykonos on 7 Apr 2018

Frank Randall glanced over the cart of storage boxes and ephemera rolled into his office by his research assistant. He referred then to his list of call numbers, written into a small notebook, mentally checking off each one as he saw it. Sunshine reflected boldly off the archival trove, the natural light shining through his office window, catching flecks of grit and dirt from the boxes in the air like a fairy’s trail.

He grabbed a box and brought it to his desk, running his fingers through the dust accumulated on its lid. He guessed this box had remained largely untouched since it was catalogued. Good. Raw source material always made for the best analysis and discovery.

His mind buzzed with the excitement of being the first historian to integrate these documents, and their stories, into the historical timeline. A scholarly tingle released through his fingertips, producing shaky font as the wrote down the name of the officer this box documented:  _Lord John William Grey._

He double-checked his notes as he pulled off the gray lid and confirmed that yes, this was the British Revolutionary War officer he was looking for. With practiced diligence, his fingers flipped through the old papers, familiarizing himself with the contents and putting them chronologically into his notebook. He lifted out a stack for closer inspection— _Philadelphia 1777-1779_ —the material crinkled lightly, as if protesting the intrusion. As he moved to place the stack upon his desk, a folded note fell and came to rest uneasily on top of his polished loafer and the tile floor. Mentally cursing himself for the careless handling of antique letters, he bent to pick it up.

He froze when his eye caught the name of the addressee.

_Frank Randall._

Frank Randall? His eyebrows drew together, but then his mouth twitched at the similarity. He relaxed a bit. It’s not altogether unusual that someone might have the same name as him. A distant relative, perhaps? He slowly reached for the note, picking it up by its corner, and stood up straight, turning it over.

Twice-sealed. Never opened, it looked like. Was it never sent? But it didn’t even have a physical address indicating a destination _—_ only a name.  _Frank Randall._  Did this John Grey know a Frank Randall?

His heart stuttered; for just a moment, for just a second, he flashed back to a moment with his wife, in 1948:

_“You were raped?” he said, approaching the bed with care. Several emotions washed over him in waves: relief, terror, humiliation, anger, love. His mind whirled. Claire? Back? Is she safe? Healthy? Who hurt her?_

_“No!” Her hands whipped away from his touch, her eyes wild. He flinched. Her temper cooled then, and she reached for him. “It was not rape.” She inhaled, as if doing her best to absorb strength from her surroundings. “Frank, I’m so sorry. How can I explain this?” Tears steadily rolled down her cheeks. Her hands moved to clutch her still-flat stomach._

_“Claire?” His hands sought hers, stopping their frantic shaking. His thumbs stroked the inside of her palms in time to his breathing. “Can you tell me what happened?”_

_His breaths came in shallow, barely filling his lungs, while hers were desperate yet deep and deliberate. She was so skinny; her disheveled hair flung about her shoulders and face. Her cheeks were sunburnt. A selfish part of him questioned her: If she was not injured—how could she have disappeared without a trace? No call? No letter? Surely she would have reached out to him if she were able?_

_No longer crying, she took in a slow breath and met his eyes. “I was not raped. He loves –” her breath caught “—_ loved _me, and I him.”_

_“Who is he?”_

_She pulled her hands away and she turned her face away. “A soldier.”_

_He waited to hear more, trying to be patient. Was it someone she met in the war?_

_When she didn’t continue, he whispered: “Where is he now?”_

_“Dead.” She broke into sobs, and the intensity of her grief overpowered his selfish fears. He felt compelled to care for her, no matter the cost to himself. He loved her. His Claire. She was back, and he was grateful. He sat on the bed and put his arms around her.\_

_When she quieted at last, she whispered: “He died in the Battle of Culloden.”_

Only one person in the past knew his name, and that man had died in 1746. But here he was, confronted with “Frank Randall” on a letter from the year 1777. From Philadelphia. No, surely not. This letter couldn’t be addressed to  _him_. Impossible.

Overcome with an anxious curiosity, Frank broke the seals, peeling it apart. He briefly scanned the page with a scholar’s familiarity and confidence. It was dated with the year 1760.

His eyes then caught on the signature of the sender. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat, becoming frightened that his heart might stop. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something to stare at rather than the name he knew was there:  _James Fraser._

The letter shook in his hands. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, breathing in the familiar scent of stale decay that always accompanied archival material. Then he turned to the window of his office, framed with red curtains. Frank’s thoughts followed the ordinary light of the window as it was spread across the full bookcases lining the walls. All were neatly packed beyond capacity with analyses of the historical record. Some were written by his colleagues, others by his mentors and other people that he admired, and there were even a couple that he had authored himself. Trapped inside the book covers was  _history_ , or at least a chunk of it, written down and ensconced within the comfort of the time that passes. Time that goes by in order. One year after another. In a neat, linear, predictable fashion. His job—his purpose—as an historian was to wrangle the mess of human record and iron it out. To make it legible to others who didn’t rootle around in libraries and archives and basements and graveyards. His whole life was built around the questions: What happened, when did it happen, how did it happen, and can things like catastrophes and wars and accidents of tragedy be prevented, if we read history as a step-by-step instruction booklet?

_Frank Randall._

His name on the page, written in a deliberate hand, disrupted that quiet certainty. Because it  _was_  his name. This letter was for him. Someone named John Grey had kept a letter from James Fraser for all that time?

Swallowing hard, he sat down at his desk. He placed the letter in front of him and smoothed out the folds on the flat surface. Bent over it, he exhaled the breath he had been holding. He rested his hands in his hair, and read James Fraser’s words.

* * *

 


	2. Helwater, 1760

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted to my tumblr @muykonos on 11 Apr 2018

It was a quiet, late-summer night, and pleasantly warm. The horses were fed, brushed, and watered; they slept comfortably in their stalls. The air hummed with a chorus of crickets, and the sky shined a deep blue-black.

Fraser was leaning against a wall in the stable, arms crossed over his chest. He stared, unseeingly, into a lantern. John Grey sat on an old bench against the opposite wall, relaxed, and reached for his pot of ale. He sipped while looking Fraser over, flushing. Over the course of the evening, Fraser had partially undressed, removing his coat, boots, and knitted stockings as he settled in after a long day’s work. Grey inwardly preened at this momentary intimacy, no matter how inconsequential it may be to the other man. Fraser’s black breeches and vest contrasted with his white shirt, which finely emphasized how his sleeves fit over his shoulders. His hair was pulled back from his face into a braid, and yet a few curls escaped around his ears. Since Grey did not live near the stables and would not be staying the night here ( _of course_ , he scolded himself), he remained mostly dressed, having only taken off his coat and hat. He cleared his throat and shifted his shoulders, a little uneasily, as he steadied his thoughts.

“What is it?” Grey’s voice echoed flatly into his near-empty drink as he lifted it to his lips, sipping it again, trying not to bring attention to his brief embarrassment.

“Will ye…” Fraser cleared his throat, tried again.  “Will ye keep a letter for me?”

Grey’s answer was immediate. “Post it, you mean? Of course.”

“No,” Fraser exhaled, slowly shaking his head. “ _Keep_  it.” His statement thrummed with force, and yet his arm reached out to brace himself against the nearby window frame.

“Is it for me?” Even as Grey smiled at his little joke, he cringed. Ridiculous; of course not. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Or–?” He nodded his head in the direction of the house, invisible in the darkness that surrounded the lantern’s glow.

“No, no.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Not that.” He slowly pushed himself away from the wall, purposefully moving forward until he seated himself next to Grey.

Grey forced a chuckle as he leaned back against the wall. One of his hands came away from the drink he was holding. Briefly, it hovered towards Fraser’s shoulder, but he dropped it. “What’s this about, then?”

Fraser gave him a sidelong glance, his mouth twitching. Grey supposed that he would have to wait until Fraser decided what he wanted to say. But Fraser had his secrets, and he knew with no small amount of disappointment that the man may not reveal everything.

He remained silent a long time.

“I can hear you thinking all the way over here,” Grey said. He swatted at a moth drawn to the nearby lantern flame, swiping twice, three times, until the moth fluttered away into the night.

Fraser inhaled, resolute. “I think I can trust ye, John.” Grey’s ears perked at the use of his given name, and he sat forward, attentive.

“Yes.”

“Do ye recall me telling you of my wife?” he asked, very, very softly.

“Of—of course. Her name was Claire?” It might have been a flicker of candlelight, but he thought he saw Fraser’s shoulders crumple.

“Aye. Claire.” He paused.

“The letter is for her?” The question left Grey’s lips before he realized what he was asking.

Fraser’s head tilted. “In a way.” He faced Grey. “Ye ken my wife is gone, John?”

Grey nodded slowly. He knew Fraser had been married some time ago, and that he still suffered for her loss, but he had never spoken of her willingly.

“What if I told ye she hadna died?”

Grey froze. He did not want to speak but needed answers. “Where is she, then?” he asked, feeling cautious.

Fraser ran his hands through his hair, perhaps to cover their trembling, and then gripped his knees until his knuckles turned white. “ _She couldna be here_ , aye? With the redcoats combin’ clan lands for traitors and starvin’ out villages? Burnin’ homes? Dishonorin’ traitor’s wives, and killin’ their children? She would have died if she stayed, wi’ me a convict—or dead—and no’ there to protect her.”

Grey flinched, glancing at his own red coat, laying casually beside the two of them.

Fraser caught the look and nodded. “Oh, aye.” He reached for it, then, and laid his hand upon it.

“I ken I can trust ye. Mmphmm.” Fraser nodded again. “Claire is…” He trailed off for a moment, then pressed forward. “Claire is no’ of this time.”

Grey’s heart skipped, but still he said nothing, waiting for an explanation. His mind wandered to the escape from Ardsmuir and tales of golden treasure and white witches. Myths and legends seemed to closely follow wherever Fraser went.

“To ensure she would be safe, after—I told her to go back. To her own time. I dinna ken how it works.” He shifted his shoulders. “I dinna think she does, either. But she’s there now.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. The open door was closing.

Grey ventured a question, trying to hold it open. “In her own…time?”

“Ye dinna believe me.”

“I do not doubt your word, Mr. Fraser. I trust you as you can trust me.” He let the words crystallize between them, then kept on: “Your wife is sometime in the future, then?” It was the only explanation for  _holding_  a letter.

“Aye.”

“Is the letter for her?”

“The letter  _isna_  for her, but for someone carin’ for her.”

“Why me? Why can you not keep the letter yourself?”

Fraser gestured about the stable, his words coming quickly, unsettled by having to speak his logic aloud. “Where could I hide it, to be sure it was no’ lost, no’ stolen? No, I canna keep it myself. If I may be so bold, Major Grey, you have the rank and the title to protect my words through time. If ye stow it wi’ important documents, maybe, the letter will survive.”

“How can you be sure this person will get it?”

“I am no’ certain. But I have prayed for it.”

“But why not just write a letter to Claire?” Grey could not resist pressing this point again.

Fraser’s mouth twisted into something like resignation, as if remembering an argument bitterly lost. “I willna. Canna. She is to forget me.”

The rigid set of his jaw was the only thing betraying his anguish, and even that was kept in check. Since they’d met, Grey had noticed the bleakness of Fraser’s demeanor and the pallor of his cheeks, despite his being reserved and tightly restrained. He was a broken tea bowl with [ _kintsugi_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FKintsugi&t=MWZiOTdlMGEzNWY0ZDI2MGUxMzg5MWVlY2FiNGVlZTQzNTI5MWEwMyw0ZDY5OWZjYTE2YmFlOTY0YzgwYmI4ZjE4ZTEwYTRhODdkODA2NDYx) repair work; his beauty and rarity only enhanced by his past, rather than ruined.

Grey saw that Fraser loved his wife fiercely, across the landscape of time that separated them. Fraser looked a little out of time himself, perhaps a Viking incarnate. Strands of his red hair caught in a lantern’s glow, casting his face in a mystic halo. It was no shock at all that the person who filled the pause between Fraser’s heartbeats was someone who could transcend time like navigating water. She had come, and then left. Would this woman travel again for James Fraser? His attentions and passion would certainly inspire Grey to confront the esoteric and the occult, no matter the cost. Did she not feel the same?

“How long should I keep the letter?”

A nearby candle flared as Fraser surprised Grey with a chuckle. “Two hundred years or so.”

Two hundred years. The gap between Fraser and Claire was cavernous, exceeding several lifetimes.

Fraser stood then and moved to his coat, which he had hung on a hook, and reached into an inner pocket. He withdrew a twice-sealed note and held it out for Grey to take. “Keep it safe,” he urged. “Make sure it is never destroyed or lost. Even—especially—when ye are no longer able to protect it.”


	3. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this is part of @thelallybrochlibrary‘s prompt exchange and what i’ve decided is my final installment to @docsama‘s prompt (#12). 
> 
> a giant, monstrous, heaping pile of t h a n k y o u to @lets-talk-about-politics for being my in-house creative writing editor, yet again, and for challenging me to take advantage of Jamie’s gracious spirit. (it also helps that you remind me of Jamie, so you’re kind of my muse for this chapter).
> 
> thanks to the OL fanfic-scape for reading, commenting, reblogging, liking, etc on this short story. y’all are a blessing in my life and I have enjoyed writing for you!!! ! I plan to write more later on!!! !! !!

 

_16th June 1760_

_Helwater in the Lake District_

_England_

 

 _Sir,_  

_I write you out of obligation, out of loneliness, out of surrender._

_Undoubtedly, you are familiar with days that ring hollow with separation. You are perhaps the only person in the course of human history who knows what it is to have had her, and then to have lost her. She is now returned to you; I am alone in the finality of my loss._

_Death blew in on the wings of the Rising, with musket fire and honor calling me onto the field at Culloden. It was then that I sent her, and my child, to you for safekeeping. Yet, despite my fiercest efforts, Death overlooked me. Perhaps my eagerness to embrace it is what doomed me to living. And so, I am condemned for taking another man’s wife._

_I married your wife._

_Know that she honored you. If not for the threat of torture or death at the hands of the British military, she would never have married me. Even after our marriage contract was signed, she never took off your wedding ring. She is your wife. But she was also mine, and I take solace in that she loved me, too. You are her husband; I am her husband._

_In the morning, when I wake, she is the sun coming through my window. She is warm, and nourishing, and safe. But then wakefulness chases away the contentment and delusion of dreams. Sunlight becomes Hell; the air that carries the light turns acrid. Some mornings, the sun makes me retch._

  _Far from home, and long removed, vivid images flood my thoughts: finger impressions upon her clothing, hairs trapped in a brush, herbs and flowers growing where she planted them. Her shadows still tease me around corners, her voice scolds me, her knowledge advises me in my decisions. My mind, my nerves, my veins overflow with thoughts of her._

_I was once awakened by the sound of a soft lullaby. When I opened my eyes, I was not in my own bed, but instead in one that I did not recognize._

_The melody was not one that my mother had sang to me; it was one I had heard from Claire. I lay in bed for several moments, frozen within my wretchedness, as I tried to interpret what was reality or fantasy. But I knew, without knowing, that this was both._

  _I could hear my own heart’s ache in the lullaby. I slowly sat up, and there she was. Claire._

  _She had her back to me, her arms in front of her as if holding something, her hair let loose. In the mostly dark room, light from the fire’s dying embers outlined her silhouette in an orange glow. She rocked slightly, her head bent forward, humming._

 _I called her name, but there was no response. I shifted to leave the bed but paused when I heard a break in the tune.  I called her name again. Nothing. It was as if I was not in the room at all._  

_I moved toward her, my body heavy as lead. She lifted her face to me when I stood beside her, but her eyes were closed, her cheeks wet. I reached out, but was afraid to touch her for fear she would vanish. I have had dreams of her before—and yet I had never seen her grieving. I finally found the courage to touch a curl, tracing it down to her back. My hand seemed to pass through her, and I felt nothing on my fingertips, but she remained._

  _The fire popped; I could not feel its heat._  

_In her arms, she held a blanketed bundle. A baby. Mine. Yours. She bent her head over the bundle and wept. Had the child died? She hummed and sang through her sobs, clutching the bundle to her chest. Knowing that touch in this dream’s expanse was safe, and that she would not vanish, I tried to grasp her elbows, her shoulders; I reached for her neck and her cheeks and her hair. My hands danced over the blankets, but I couldn’t see the babe’s face. I pleaded with her. Give me the child, so that you may grieve unburdened. Let me grieve with you! I pulled her head towards mine and kissed her forehead. But my kiss, if she felt it, seemed only to disturb and unsettle her more, and she clenched the bundle and stepped back from me, away from the fire, but still near. The music she had clung to had ceased._

  _A wail escaped from the blankets, and a clenched, dimpled fist popped out. I felt suspended in uncertain air, afraid to fill my own lungs. Alive! Claire opened her eyes, light catching on tears unshed, and looked at the child. She bent down and pressed her forehead to it, imitating my touch on her._

 _“He is here,_ a leannan _,” I heard her whisper. “Do not cry.” With the soothing caresses and whispers of its mother, the child’s cries fell to a whimper._

 _My fingers reached up to trace her wet cheek as I kissed her hair. “I_ am _here,” I whispered back._

_And then she was gone._

_Only you and I know how it is to love Claire and then lose her. She is a woman of another world, who heals with a glance and voyages across the centuries. I have been told that time will eventually heal my sorrow, but time only seems to remind me that she is not here. Perhaps it is her gift for time travel that makes her presence, her absence, feel infinite._

_Your despair at her departure must have been unfathomable; for all you knew, your missing wife was dead. It is at least a comfort to me to know that she, and the child, are taken care of, alive, and safe. You have given me that. Shall I hate you for being my wife’s husband, for being a father to my child? No. No, I do not hate you. I am indebted to you, forever._

_Know that I love her. She was –is— the heart and the breath of my body. I can only hope that she is yours, too, and that your reunion with her was as exhilarant as I have fantasized mine to be._

_I write this not to exact my vengeance against you, nor to ask your forgiveness of me. Instead, I write because of our mutual attachment—our shared family. I write to express my appreciation and my gratitude. I write to tell you that I trust you to care for them._  

_Thank you, truly._

 

_Your most obedient servant,_

 

_James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (see what I did there with the date)  
> originally posted to my tumblr @muykonos on 15 Apr 2018


	4. Boston, 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Suicide
> 
> A/N: here’s that next chapter I said I wasn’t going to write. (couldna be helped.) in it, I strip away all canon ambiguity about frank’s death. just so there are no surprises, he kills himself at the end. it is VERY brief, not graphic, and fairly gentle, but you are not obligated to read. the majority of this chapter is Frank reflecting on his relationship with claire in a series of four vignettes-- these are clearly marked and have no tw’s
> 
> s/o to @lets-talk-about-politics for being my editor (yet again), listening to me prattle off ideas about what frank might find significant, for understanding how fragile the topic of suicide is, and for knowing how important it is to me that I get it right

White knuckles on the steering wheel, foot pressed hard on the gas.

> _“I wonder—would you have forgotten him, in time?”_
> 
> _“No.”_

Her words cleaved Frank’s chest in two. He fought back the clawing panic on the edges of his vision, sharp and white hot. The windshield wipers squeaked and squelched in their effort to keep pace with the blowing snow. 

> _They had both been nervous about that night, but she was every bit as charming as he had imagined her to be. He had taken her to a bar, wanting to keep things casual and light, even as he felt the fluttering of anxiety in his chest. They had begun the evening nervously chatting over their cocktails and bites of popcorn and pretzels, eager to hear the other person’s take on this or that, eager to impress._
> 
> _Eventually, the butterflies wore off and they settled into an easy give-and-take. They sat next to each other at the bar top, air glimmering between them, and he could sense that the intensity of his feeling was matched on her end. They swayed into each other’s orbit, seeking the intimacy of little touches in the low light of the bar, brushing knees and arms together and stealing appreciative looks._
> 
> _When they stood to leave, he helped into her jacket and, without thinking, held his hand out to her. She didn’t hesitate as she reached forward to entwine her fingers with his._
> 
> _“You know, I knew you were going to ask me out,” she said as he walked her home. They were passing through a park, taking their time._
> 
> _“Oh?” He gave their clasped hands a playful swing between them. “How did you know that?”_
> 
> _“Because you lingered.”_
> 
> _“Excuse me?”_
> 
> _She let go his hand and turned around, now walking backward, facing him. She leaned towards him, pleated skirt swaying, her smile teasing and playful._
> 
> _“You’re going to trip.”_
> 
> _She ignored him. “You lingered! When we met, I mean.” She gave a little backwards skip then rolled her eyes. “There was no reason for you to ask the same question of Uncle Lamb three times.”_
> 
> _He chuckled and shrugged, too taken with her to deny the accusation. “You caught me.” He flexed the hand that had been holding hers, aching to touch her again._
> 
> _“Ha!” With her levity, her skirt swung cheerfully. He might be imagining it, but was there a more pronounced swing to her hips?_
> 
> _Her pace slowed, moving in a strolling dance. He saw that her glance had caught his, and she volleyed his admiration back at him. He reached for her waist, both to stop her from moving away and to pull her towards him. Time slowed._
> 
> _As they came closer, her ankle twisted out from underneath her. “Agh!” she exclaimed, crooked as she balanced on one heeled shoe, bending the offending limb towards her for closer inspection.  “Shoot.”_
> 
> _He followed as she hobbled towards a nearby bench to sit._
> 
> _“My shoe broke.” She took it off and held it up to him. The heel of her black pump hung limply from the rest of the shoe. “Too much to drink I guess!” A giggle escaped her, the rest barely held back._
> 
> _“Well, Cinderella,” he replied. “I guess we know what that means.”_
> 
> _“What?”_
> 
> _“I’ve got to carry you home. C’mon.” He turned around and crouched for her to climb onto him as she released her laughter and swatted at his back._
> 
> _“No way!”_
> 
> _“You’ll miss curfew! Now, c’mon.”_
> 
> _“Curfew!” She laughed again but obligingly climbed onto his back. She held him around the shoulders as her legs wrapped around his hips. She shifted, their cheeks gently brushing as she moved. His stomach flipped when he reached back to grasp her behind her knees, making sure she was secure on his back. Her skirt had draped a little way up her legs, and his hands curved around thighs trapped in pantyhose._
> 
> _Her breath made the small hairs around his ear dance. She smelled of mixed alcohols and jasmine. “Not altogether appropriate for a first date, do you think?”_
> 
> _“Rather unorthodox,” he agreed, turning his head to look at her._
> 
> _A beat passed while the moment between them sizzled and popped. His lips parted then, and before he could register what was happening, she pressed her lips to his. His consciousness collapsed into the touch—she pulled away too soon._
> 
> _She smiled coyly. “Oops,” she whispered._

Boston’s brick homes, lit up and snuggled together against the cold and wet, smothered him. With each red light he grew more impatient. His jaw clenched as he pulled onto I-90’s entrance ramp, seeking the reprieve and release of an open highway.

> _Sleep evaded him, night making him restless. The bedroom was dark and chilly, drafts of winter cold entering through a cracked window to swirl around the room. He shivered, his skin prickling with goosebumps, but he lay still, unmoving._
> 
> _The purr of a tobacco buzz and the brief elation of alcohol had abandoned him, leaving him sober and detached. But he wasn’t alone. Her deep breaths exhaled heat, but she was turned away from him. She lay on her side, her straight blonde tresses forming brushstrokes across his pillowcase._
> 
> _She had lost her husband in the Battle of the Bulge. That’s what she told him, at least._
> 
> _He told her he also lost his wife in the war. It was easier than the other explanation, and it was a tale that didn’t invite prying questions. Instead, people allowed him his privacy while offering their sympathies. Sometimes another lonely shadow would drift towards him, and they could find fleeting comfort in each other._
> 
> _He reached to touch the woman’s hair, running a lock between his fingertips, careful not to disturb her. It was so different than his wife’s – how her hair had been, how her hair was – is?_
> 
> _He squeezed his eyes tight and pressed the base of his palms into them. Over eighteen months had come and gone. There had been no word. He let out a ragged breath as his palms came to rest on his sunken breastbone, and he miserably fiddled with his wedding band._

Frank shot past other cars on the expressway, heedless of black ice, watching as his tires make fresh tracks in the clinging snow in the rearview mirror. Nearly out of the city. Black expanse waited for him beyond scrutinizing electric light.

> _His key turned in the lock and he entered his home. Silence._
> 
> _“Claire?”_
> 
> _She didn’t usually greet him, but Bree would. It was late—his lecture had run over—but not so late that Claire would have put Bree down for bed. Why couldn’t he hear them busy about the house?_
> 
> _“Claire!” he called again, this time a bit louder. Frightened at this shift in the routine, he set down his briefcase and began to search the house. He didn’t bother to remove his coat, hat, or shoes._
> 
> _“Hello? Brianna?”_
> 
> _Nothing but quiet. Was there something wrong?_
> 
> _Climbing the stairs, he brushed by Bree’s room. Empty. Bathroom. Door open, light off. Empty, too. His heart hammered, and he wheeled around. Was Claire gone again?_
> 
> _No, it couldn’t be. Bunny was on Bree’s bed. Where Bunny was, Brianna wasn’t far away. Where Brianna was, Claire would be._
> 
> _Finally, he happened upon the both of them, asleep, in the master bedroom.  Bree, about four years old, lay nestled into the curve of her mother’s body. Frank slowed and gingerly sat, removing his hat, as his wife began to stir._
> 
> _He gave a small smile. “Hello. I’m home.” He leaned toward her, the warm scent of an early sleep relaxing him into their haze._
> 
> _“Hello,” she replied, slowly reaching up to brush away red strands of Brianna’s hair, caught upon her lips. She returned his smile, a little shakily. The fog of interrupted sleep was heavy._
> 
> _He bent to kiss her. “Have a nice day?” he said against her lips._
> 
> _She turned away and nuzzled Brianna’s red mop, muffling her voice. “Just fine.”_

With one eye on the road, Frank pressed a palm into the other. He took a shallow breath, less to take in oxygen than to have something to pull him away from memory. Headlights from oncoming traffic flashed past him into the night.

His mind blurred with both rage and despair. 

> _After midnight, the telephone rang._
> 
> _“Daddy?” The voice on the line was slurred. “Will you come get me?”_
> 
> _“Where are you?”_
> 
> _Returning home, he braced a limp Brianna on his shoulder. She reeked. He was thankful she had the good sense to phone instead of driving home herself or grabbing a ride from a drunk friend. A movie night had gotten out of hand, she mumbled to him. Someone began passing out beer and she didn’t want to say no._
> 
> _He got her to bed, placing a glass of water and a bottle of Advil on her nightstand. On impulse, he held Bunny out to her, and a pale hand reached to take it. Bunny disappeared into the blankets under her chin. He grabbed a wastebasket and placed it near her should she need it, but she didn’t seem to be on the verge of sickness. Her eyes were closed tight, and he brushed her red hair back from her face while he bent to kiss her forehead—just as he had done every night before she proclaimed she was too old for a father’s kiss goodnight._
> 
> _At quarter to three he heard the lock turn. She was back from her shift at the hospital. Late. Shielded by darkness, he only saw her outline as she placed her keys on a hook and hung up her jacket._
> 
> _He was sitting in an armchair in his dress robe, spinning brandy around his glass, thinking. He felt a bit wild now as he looked at her, the lateness of the hour and the burn of his drink making him feel rash, on edge._
> 
> _The clock tick, tick, ticked on the mantelpiece._
> 
> _“Bree went out drinking tonight,” he said without preamble. He sounded less affected than he felt as he told her what happened._
> 
> _“Is she okay?” Claire demanded._
> 
> _“She’s upstairs.”_
> 
> _“Goddammit, Frank, that’s not what I asked.” He scoffed as she repeated herself: “I said, is she okay?”_
> 
> _“Yes.”_
> 
> _She waited to hear more._
> 
> _He pressed his lips together, intentionally antagonizing her. “At no thanks to you.”_
> 
> _“And just what is that supposed to mean?”_
> 
> _“She’s acting out, you know.” He gestured upstairs, as if it were obvious. Obvious to everyone but Claire, it seemed. “She’s trying to get your attention.”_
> 
> _“My daughter has my attention.”_
> 
> _He raised his eyebrows._
> 
> _“Teenagers act recklessly, no matter how involved their parents are,” she continued, glaring at him, taking his bait._
> 
> _“If you say so, Dr. Randall.”_
> 
> _Tick, tick, tick._
> 
> _He set his drink down on the end table, missing a coaster. “But from my vantage point, I see a lonely teen girl crying out for her mother.” He crossed his arms and thought of Bree, passed out, snuggling Bunny._
> 
> _Claire closed her eyes and shook her head, causing the few curls that had escaped her surgeon’s bun to sway. “Not tonight, please,” she muttered._
> 
> _He stood. “When then? When will you show up?” He clenched a fist. “What if I had not been here when she called, looking for a ride? What then?”_
> 
> _“And where would you be at night, Professor Randall, if not at home?” she taunted._
> 
> _He huffed, feeling heat creep up his neck. “All I’m saying is that you should work less. Brianna is suffering for it.” He provoked her out of selfish need._
> 
> _She bristled. “You have never understood, and you never will.” She paused and tugged at the bottom of her sweater. “Please save the personal attacks for another night. I’ve had a long day and I need to check on our daughter. Thank you for getting her home safe.” He saw her shiver._
> 
> _She was retreating behind her walls again._
> 
> _He glowered, prodding at her once more. “You were never like this before, you know.”_
> 
> _It worked. She flared._
> 
> _“Before_ what _, Frank?”_
> 
> _Tick, tick, tick._
> 
> _His thumb absently stroked a folded letter in his breast pocket, crinkling it against his chest. No, not tonight. He sighed and sat. “Goodnight, Claire.”_
> 
> _She was already upstairs._

His hand moved then to the note, tucked into an inner pocket of his jacket. His ghost. His lost marriage. His child. His jinx.

The letter was heavy against his chest. Tearing it from his pocket, he held it against the steering wheel, staring at his name scrawled across the back of it.  _Frank Randall_. His foot weighed down on the gas pedal.

Nothing was as it should have been.  

He slammed a fist into the paper and the car swerved. Straightening course, he ground his teeth together, the letter caught in a death grip on the steering wheel.

Seized by an impulse—or rather, with the courage to do what he had wanted for so long, he crumpled and tore at the letter. He rolled down the car window and set the letter free, fluttering and disappearing into the flurry of snowflakes.

Clear-eyed, he saw that he was alone. Violently twisting the steering wheel, he let go, a prayer for Bree and Claire on his lips.


End file.
